This year, when I play,
the tunes—part truth, part dream—
deliver and transform:
“I’ll be home for Christmas”—
“Someday soon, we all will be together.”
I savor the safety of imagination,
of a ceramic Christmas village,
aglow with white lights, above
a fireplace roaring, of decades-old
reds, greens and blues as they blink
below a handmade angel, of Mom’s
blueberry pancakes lingering over
shiny-wrapped packages; bodies move
in and out to open and close gifts,
then get dinner going. Later, a walk,
and books in hands. Deck the Halls
as others quietly listen.
This year, I play earlier than most.
With an “audience” of one in some
other room as he works, and a cat
napping elsewhere, our tree still
to come, I turn my longing to the
tunes and they take me. When
a wrong note comes, I glide over it,
ever reaching for my imagined picture.
Even now, alone, the songs sense
the other years. With reassuring notes,
familiar words, I am transported.
I can feel the Christmas cheer.
CTD Robinson holds an MFA in creative writing from Lesley University and is currently working toward her MA at The Bread Loaf School of English, Middlebury College. She has taught creative writing in elementary schools and published nonfiction writing at Solstice Literary Magazine, Kripalu and The Dedham Times.